Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  ***

  Emma hardly knew Michael. Out of all her neighbours in the quiet cul-de-sac that was Willet Close, the only acquaintances she had were Naomi Shepard, who was a single mother of five-year-old, Corrie, divorced from an abusive husband, and Sherri Douglas - a retired second-hand bookstore clerk and avid reader of history books, who lived at number 8.

  She was still trying to make some sort of sense to what Michael was ranting on about when she drove past Thorburn Close on her left and saw a white news van with the BBC logo on the side, parked up on the kerb next to two patrol cars.

  In her fleeting glance, she saw a couple of uniformed officers talking to reporters in front of the yellow crime scene tape, stopping anyone unauthorised going any further.

  Michael had been right.

  ***

  Jake had been lying in bed reading his hardcover copy of Dreamcatcher by Stephen King when his concentration was broken by the sound of someone yelling his wife’s name from across the street.

  Jake dropped the book, threw himself out of bed and darted to the bedroom window, peeking through the curtains, scanning the familiar street below, wanting to see everything without being seen himself.

  He saw Emma standing on the driveway by the driver’s door, looking across the street where the voice came from.

  Jake’s cheeks flushed an angry beetroot colour at the sight of Michael Gibson, displaying his slabs of muscles, gleaming in the morning sunlight in just his tight-fitting briefs. He’d only admit to himself that he was envious of Michael’s body. He knew how Emma liked muscular men, because whenever they were watching a boxing match or an action film, she would usually say something aloud like, ‘Wow! Look at those bulging, tennis-ball arms.’

  Was the security guard for Wilkinson’s store trying to hit on his wife? If he was, how would Jake stop him? If they had a fight, Michael would kill him. There was no way on this earth Jake could beat Michael, not without a weapon of some kind, at least.

  The double-glazing window prevented Jake from hearing what they were talking about clearly... although he did hear the words, news, Thorburn Close, and his wife saying no, shaking her head.

  Did that mean what they were discussing had nothing to do with his unfounded suspicions? Had Michael been asking an innocuous question? Or had it been a code they used to mean something entirely different?

  It drove Jake crazy just thinking about Emma having intercourse by the six foot one, muscle-bound stallion. The more sensible, rational part of his conscious told him what he was considering was preposterous. Emma would never do such a thing to him. She wasn’t that type of woman who slept around. Her thoughts were either on her career as a psychotherapist or with him and their home life.

  Emma was one of those productive women, who always found something to keep her occupied, whether it was mowing the lawn, writing confidential evaluations about the clients she was treating or simply spending quality time with him.

  Then he saw Michael wave to Emma as she drove off and a hurt bomb exploded inside him.

  As far as Jake was aware, Michael had never spoken to either of them in the three years they’d been living opposite him. So, why all of a sudden did Michael start talking to his wife, as though he had known her for years, and then wave goodbye to her?

  Calm down! Calm down! There’s no need to get worked up over nothing. There’s probably a reasonable explanation for all of this. Just wait till Emma comes home, and ask her nonchalantly, by way of conversation, what your neighbour, Michael and her were discussing, and see what she say’s. But don’t go assuming all kinds of scenarios that will only give you stress and a headache. Okay?

  His conscience was right. There was no need to get emotional over something that might have been nothing more than a neighbour asking a harmless question.

  Jake put the bookmarker on the page he had been reading, closed it and got dressed. In spite of what his mind had prudently advised him to do, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything like reading a captivating novel until his suspicions were obliterated with his wife’s answer to his question later on.

  ***

  It had already been four days since Joe had moved in to his new home. He thought it was a little bit weird, sleeping in his bed all to himself. There was no Jenna-Marie nagging at him to get up and put the kettle on, while she had yet another lie in. He had the quilt all to himself. Furthermore, he didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn any more to go for a long run before heading to the gym once he’d had two bowls of cereal and an orange juice. If he chose to, he could lay in bed all day long. Nevertheless, Joe wasn’t tired. After opening cardboard boxes and putting his belongings in their correct places around his new house and moving heavy furniture to and fro, deciding where best to place it, he had no trouble getting to sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow at night.

  He heard voices outside, and then the sound of a motor starting, the sound growing distant as it exited the cul-de-sac, disappearing around the corner, out of sight. He paid the voices no heed. There was plenty of time to become acquainted with his fellow neighbours.

  When he’d had something for breakfast, Joe decided to go for a stroll into the town centre to pick up some provisions, now that the fridge was functioning, humming quietly in the kitchen, waiting to be stocked with supplies.

  Exiting the house and inhaling the crisp morning air reminded him of all those mornings when he’d been training hard for all those title defences against challengers from all around the world. It was nice to walk, instead of running, for a change.

  Although the radiant sun was warm, he could still see the plumes of air dissipating from his own mouth as he headed down the street, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hooded pullover.

  Five minutes later, further down the road, Joe saw a police patrol car parked up on the kerb outside a cul-de-sac street, (similar to the street he lived on). It looked out of place, temporarily stationed in the quiet suburbs on the outskirts of town, and Joe wondered why it had been there for almost a whole week. Evidently something very bad had taken place there, which evoked what the real estate agent told him when he was viewing his house.

  ‘As you can see, this neighbourhood is peaceful. Most residents here are either retired or wealthy enough because of their careers to enable them to live here. The prices of properties may well be dearer than other parts of town. But you can see why, can’t you? You’re not just paying for the property itself, but also the tranquillity that comes with it.’

  Had he been a sucker to believe the estate agent’s lies, just to sell him the house? Or was this just a one-off?

  It was just a one-off, he decided. And if he was going to be moving house just because the law had been broken every once in a while, then he would never find a place he could call home... ever. It was just the way of the world these days. Crimes were committed anywhere and everywhere.

  He noticed the street sign. Thorburn Close. It was almost identical to Willet Close.

  A police officer in uniform, talking into his noisy, staccato radio, nodded at him as he walked on by. Joe tried not to stare at the deserted street beyond, cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the gentle breeze.

  He purchased more shopping than he expected, realising it would have been a lot easier and prudent had he driven into town and used the Morrison’s superstore car park. Instead he had to carry six heavy bags filled to the rim of groceries, hoping that the plastic wouldn’t tear, or the bottom fall out on his journey home. If nothing else, he thought, the muscles in his arms would have something to do. And it was vitally important to Joe to stay in shape now more than ever, having nothing specific to train for. He had to watch he didn’t quickly turn into a fat slob.

  As he trudged up the hill at a languid pace, a dark blue Ford Escort pulled in alongside the kerb, its indicator signal flashing
. Joe hoped the driver wouldn’t ask him for directions, because he still wasn’t sure of the exact street names of the neighbourhood. Yet when the window wound down into the gap and the driver poked his head out, flashing his identification badge, Joe realised that the man behind the wheel was in fact a plain-clothed police officer.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  Joe thought about it for a moment; then said, ‘No. I’m almost home now, anyway. Thanks, though.’

  ‘Name’s Detective Inspector Sark. I’m investigating the disappearances of the residents at Thorburn Close. Do you know anything about that, sir?’

  Joe frowned. ‘Disappearances?’ He paused. ‘No. I didn’t know anything like that was going on. The other day when I was driving up here to where I live, I saw the area cordoned off, but didn’t think much of it. I’ve just been through a long, hellish divorce and my head was in the clouds. I haven’t been out the house for the best part of the week - been busy moving furniture, going through boxes, n’ stuff.’

  Sark eyed the bags of shopping stretching the plastic, threatening to break at any moment. ‘Lemme give you a lift. Whad’ya say?’

  ‘Do you suspect that I had somethin’ to do with these disappearances?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’m a police officer. I keep my eyes and ears open all the time.’

  Joe understood what the inspector was saying. If he thought Joe was a suspect, he wouldn’t be offering him a lift, unless he was in handcuffs. Nevertheless, everyone was a suspect, until the perpetrator was either apprehended by good detective work, or came forward of their own accord.

  Joe opened the back door and put the shopping bags on the back seat, then climbed in the front on the passenger side, slamming the door shut, making sure to put his seat belt on.

  ‘Where’d you live?’ Sark asked.

  ‘Willet Close.’

  Sark indicated to get back on the road leading over the crest towards Willet Close. ‘So, you haven’t heard about what’s happened then?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Joe began, ‘I’ve been busy going through my boxes, moving furniture, doing my utmost to make the interior of my home look a bit familiar to me. I haven’t even tuned the TV in yet. I haven’t had chance. It took me the best part of one morning constructing the frame of my bed.’

  Sark chuckled.

  ‘You said someone has disappeared, is that right?’

  ‘Not someone. Five people... all living on the same street.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve gone away together for awhile,’ Joe suggested.

  ‘No, they haven’t. Each and every one of them has been snatched out of their homes and lives, without trace.’

  ‘It beats me who would do such a thing, in the first place,’ Joe said.

  The car drove past a very desolate Thorburn Close, continuing up the hill.

  ‘I don’t think its one person doing it. I believe it is a group of kidnappers.’

  ‘Have the other residents seen or heard anything out of place?’ Joe asked.

  Sark shook his head. ‘Not a thing... It seems whoever sees these abductors are the ones who get taken. We still haven’t been contacted by them, and the longer it goes without them contacting us for a ransom, the more likely it is, whoever these people are, aren’t doing it for money.’

  ‘What are they doing it for, then?’

  ‘The pure pleasure,’ Sark replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some sick bastards just want to inflict pain and misery.’

  They drove in silence the rest of the way. Then when Sark brought the vehicle to a halt outside Willet Close, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you so openly. What I told you can’t be repeated -’

  Joe held his hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture. ‘Hey, my lips are sealed. I mean no one knows for sure what exactly has happened. Everyone’s probably speculating. I’m just shocked because I thought this was a part of town where this kind of shit never occurred. I hope you find the bastards and give them multiple life sentences for what they’ve done. The less people like that around the better and safer for everyone.’

  Sark smiled at Joe, proffering his hand. They shook.

  ‘You look familiar,’ Sark said. ‘Have we met before?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No. I doubt it. I’m Joe Camber - former Super-Middleweight champion of the world.’

  Sark’s mouth fell open in genuine astonishment. ‘Jesus Christ! It is you! Oh, man. You’re a legend.’

  Joe snorted laughter through his nose. ‘I dunno about that.’

  ‘Yeah, you are,’ the detective insisted. ‘You’re the undisputed champion of the world. Remember that fight against the mighty Russian, in the unification bout?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Yeah. I still get migraines because of that fight.’ Even though he had meant it as a joke, there was an underlying truth to it, as well. Sometimes, on occasions,

  Joe would wake up with splitting headaches, and would have to take Paracetemol tablets to ease the pain.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, inspector.’

  ‘Anytime, champ.’

  Joe got out of the car, went around to the back door, grabbed his shopping bags and then stepped up on the pavement. He turned to the cordial inspector. ‘Good luck with the investigation. And if I here of anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe.’

  Detective Inspector Sark spun the Ford around, tooted the horn before driving off down the road back to Thorburn Close.

  Joe carried his shopping inside.

  ***

  The front door to number 5 Willet Close opened, letting an excited, cute Jack Russell called Homer dart onto the front lawn to urinate.

  Martha Clark, the elderly lady, who refused to be taken into care at any of the numerous, plush residential homes in the area, watched her adorable pet rolling around on the grass, jumping up and down, full of energy, chasing his own shadow, smiling at how daft but affable Homer was. All her neighbours said how cute he was and often came over when Homer was outside to stroke his belly.

  In her old age, there wasn’t much to look forward to, except Homer and daytime television. Although what did play on Martha’s conscience was that because she was unable to step outside and walk for a couple of miles effortlessly, it meant that Homer’s only exercise was running about on the front and rear lawns. It didn’t seem fair that the poor thing should have to be cooped up all day because his owner was incapable of walking any further than the end of the street without suffering with excruciating cramps.

  Martha watched Homer cocking his leg up at the nearest streetlamp and did his business, telling him he was a good boy. She inhaled as much fresh air as she could. But something in the gentle breeze whispering in the shrubs brought an abrupt end to her serenity that matched the clear sky overhead. She could sense something wicked coming her way in the wind, laden with malevolence and gruesome nightmares as tangible as the concrete doorstep she currently stood upon.

  When Martha was in her twenties, she’d travelled around the south of the country, reading palms to anyone who would pay the fee and take her incredible gift seriously.

  The last time she’d foreseen a terrible vision was when she’d read a brusque man’s callused palms in her caravan on site of a local fairground. What she had seen that day made her shake uncontrollably, before toppling off her straight back chair, shrieking at the bearded, unkempt fellow not to touch her; to take his money out of the fruit bowl and take his leave, immediately. He obliged, but not before glancing over his shoulder at her one last time, and Martha had never been able to erase his image from her memory in the decades that passed thereafter.

  The sight of women cuffed in chains against blank concrete walls in the man’s basement, gagged, bruised and totally helpless to their awful fates awaiting them couldn’t be deleted, no matter h
ow much Martha wanted to forget it.

  She’d gone to the authorities with the information and description of the gentleman. However, it wasn’t until the first female body was found floating on the surface, head down, in the River Neath that the police took her account - and her unique talent - seriously. But by then it was all too late for the pour soul whom had been tortured for God knew how long, until she was finally released into the arms of death.

  Homer sat on the grass, wet from the dew, staring at his owner, his head tilted to one side, wondering why the old lady had temporarily shutdown in her reverie, vacating her body, drifting with the clouds of her past, when she would never have imagined herself with short curly white hair, fringing her brow, covering her ears; laugh lines etched deeply at the corner of her eyes and mouth; her wrinkly flesh losing the inevitable battle to gravity with every passing day.

  She prayed her sixth sense was wrong; that her talent had long gone (along with her youth) and she was only imagining something that was clearly impossible; something so absurd only a frail old lady would conjure such a thing, merely to give her something to contemplate in her loneliness.

  Unfortunately for Martha and the residents at Willet Close, her sixth sense was acute. Something wicked there way neared ever closer...

  3.

  Kyle Radcliff sprung to life early on Saturday morning, not wanting to waste any precious time on the weekend sleeping when he could be outside with his best friend, Leigh, riding their mountain bikes, exploring the countryside, using the F-word in every sentence, because there were no parents around, sipping cans of Carlsburg and seeing who could take the longest drag on a cigarette; or better yet, throwing small stones across the lake, skipping the surface.

  In the summer the lake was mobbed with other school kids using the swing rope tied around a thick branch on the sycamore tree to make an almighty splash on entry. But in February if you were awake before sunrise you could often catch the lake as one massive sheet of ice.